


Gloria In (Excess) Excelsis

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blasphemy kink, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Pine scented, Recitation Kink, Record scratch, aziraphale is still an angel, crowley.exe endures a series of critical systems failures, i bet you’re wondering how we got here, more or less, rated R for Crowley’s mouth, rentboy Crowley, sex worker Crowley, starts abruptly with sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: “So, Mr. Fell,” Crowley began, swallowing around the lump in his throat only to be interrupted with a good-natured chuckle as the man in question dabbed daintily at his lips with the linen napkin.“Please, call me Aziraphale. We’re meant to be companions, yes?”Crowley is a sex worker, and he's not entirely sure Mr. Aziraphale Z. Fell understands what exactly "companionship" means these days... Either way, he pays well.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 101
Kudos: 220
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brynncognito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynncognito/gifts).



“Fuck!” The 20-something redhead cursed, the whine pulled from his lips like the prayer he was supposed to be reciting. The cock in him moved _just right_ and he sobbed a breaking and broken hallelujah. The man wrapped within his thighs, wrecking him so completely and utterly, gripped tightly at his weeping cock between them. It was almost enough to hurt and definitely enough to stave off his orgasm. 

“De–defend me against the spirit of—” He keened again with another bitten-off _oh_ _fuck!_ and stuttered as he picked the prayer back up, only to be interrupted by the complete and utter cessation of movement within him; his patron’s hands strong on his hips and pinning them together so fully he couldn’t even writhe enough for that _blessed_ friction.

“Start over, my dear boy.” The commandment from on high came softly but undeniably firm, not at all unlike the iron fist wrapped around soft skin, exactly like the unrelenting grip that kept him from the release he so desperately wanted, no, _needed_. Anthony J. Crowley, rentboy extraordinaire, drew in a shuddering breath and half-sobbed before he nodded and tried to gather his wits. He clawed at the bars of the headboard, flexing his bloodless fingers around the wood but never letting go, and wished he’d opted for the bowtie around his wrists to keep him there. He really should have known by now that Mr. A. Z. Fell would fuck him hard enough to scatter his wits entirely.

“My good Angel,” he began, the prayer weighty like a benediction and oh so profane, “Thou comest from heaven; God has sent thee to take care of me.” Crowley’s mouth fell open in a low moan that reverberated through his chest as Mr. Fell slowly began moving his hand in time with the cadence of his recitation. He choked again.

“Hngk– Oh, shelter me u-under thy wings.” His panting grew ragged again as the sweetest torture of the too-soft, too-gentle, too- _good_ hand on him kept its too-laconic pace and threatened to ruin him utterly– to spill his brains from his ears and steal his breath from his body permanently, like this man who seemed so intent on pulling this prayer from his lips. 

“Lighten my path, direct my steps. Do not leave–” a gasp ripped itself from his throat and he clenched around Mr. Fell as his back arched. He forced himself to calm with a few more gulping breaths. “Leave me, stay quite near me and defend me against the spirit of—of evil. But above all come to my help in the last struggle of my life.”

Crowley couldn’t help the tumble of words from his lips. He’d had to start over three times now, this was the _fourth_ recitation of this _damned_ bloody prayer and he figured he could probably be forgiven for the stuttering and the– _bloody fuck!_ Mr. Fell’s hips started up again, a rough and punishing pace with strong hands keeping Crowley’s hips firmly in place still, rather clearly chasing his own pleasure, intent on finishing along with the prayer.

“Pay mind,” Mr. Fell intoned lowly, his fingers once again tightening and staving off Crowley’s release, prompting him to start up the prayer again, clawing at whatever sanity he had left to finish it. “De– deliver my soul so that with thee it may praise, love and contemplate the goodness of God forever and ever.”

Crowley sobbed out the last word, “Amen.” And all at once Mr. Fell cried out as his hips stuttered, fingers like iron bands over Crowley’s skin, releasing him from his punishing grip. Mr. Fell flooded into Crowley at the last of _so be it_. Crowley followed soon after, tears streaking down his face in relief, chest heaving in ecstasy so potent his vision went white. He swore he saw the face of God for a moment on a background of feathers so white they almost felt holy. But when he came back to himself—gently shushed by the older man who was stroking his oversensitive skin to ground him—there were no holy feathers, or guardian angel wings, or God. Just a debauched man and his paid-for whore. Just the way Crowley preferred it.

* * *

This entire Arrangement-with-a-capital-A started off rather innocuously. Or, at least, it had for a certain red-head. He’d gotten a call on his mobile—alright, so perhaps not so innocuous considering most of his… patronage came from online ads and cam series he’d done in the past and he was usually DM’d online or contacted through a discreet email address—from a man with an entirely un-innocuous name; Aziraphale Z. Fell.

First of all, who gave their middle initial in an introduction? Secondly, what poor sod gave their kid a middle name starting with _Zed_? And third, Crowley was fucked (well, hopefully) because he might have already fallen in love with the man’s voice. Mr. Fell was also extremely, unfairly, unfailingly polite. Crowley was going to have a _hell_ of a good time riling the man up, if he was anything like his regular patrons. 

Crowley’s clientele tended towards the high end—the kind of people who bought escorts instead of whores but liked to call them rentboys anyway, that enjoyed having a svelte and tall figure on their arm who could do wicked things with his silver tongue for them after he’d impressed the rest of the party with his wit and charm. Truthfully most of his charm was in witty one-liners after gauging the feel of a room and what his patron wanted from him after standing, stoic but ‘effortlessly’ handsome and cultured (which was really just the ‘rich’ way of saying tall, dark, and handsome without sounding so plebeian as that), rather than in any sort of actual ability. Given enough rope and room, he’d hang himself with that silver tongue of his, which was prone to slipping up at the worst of times if given enough time to run away with itself.

So, it wasn’t altogether a surprise when the man, Mr. Fell, arranged a first meeting at the Ritz. Uncommon, un-innocuous, but not surprising. And so he went, dressed in his tightest jeans, and his silkiest shirt (that he knew caught on his skin _just so_ if he moved in a particular way), and a dark vest, metallic scarf-necklace, and blazer—just fancy enough to circumvent the Ritz’s dress code. He sauntered into the restaurant with his hips in the lead to a table with a surprising man seated there.

Oh. Oh fuck. He wasn’t supposed to be _cute_. Sure, sexy he could handle, old and no longer attractive he was used to, but this? A literal angel, probably, dressed in all beiges and off-whites, looking like a creamy tea. Even his hair was light, and the luminous glow of expensive chandeliers and candles flickered in a way that made him look like he had one of those old-school halos, the kind that glowed like a disc behind some holy symbol’s head. Soft and rounded like literal fucking cherubim painted across the Sistine Chapel. A weak thought entered his head, settling and growing roots far too rapidly for him to dismiss it. _I wonder if he’d want me to fall on my knees and worship at his temple_. 

Crowley nearly stopped walking and swallowed heavily. He licked his lips to wet them since he’d found them to be suddenly dry, and pulled out the seat next to Mr. Fell with all the grace and aplomb he could manage. It was quite a bit actually, scraped up from the bottom of the barrel and shoved neatly into place.

“Mr. Fell,” he murmured, his voice nearly a purr as he leaned forward, sinuous like a snake and all too pleased to show off the length of his body. He rested his chin in his hand and his elbow on the table. The man turned his head to look at him, eyelashes gently kissing his cheeks as he blinked and looked down at Crowley in such a way that made the man helpless. Oh no.

“Elbows on the table is generally considered rude, Mr. Crowley.” 

Immediately Crowley sat up ramrod straight and laid his hands in his lap, eyes wide behind his dark lenses and eyebrows up near his hairline. 

“Augh-” he said in reply, “Y-yeah, sure.” Just like that, any hint of coolness fled the scene as if it had just witnessed a murder, despite Crowley’s desperate clawing at it to make it stay. Mr. Fell didn’t ask about the glasses though, not like some people did, and didn’t say it was rude to wear them indoors either, so that was certainly a point in his favor. Crowley didn’t much like his eyes, though some of his clients certainly did; the coloboma had the effect of making his eyes look not unlike a cat’s, or perhaps a snake’s, and also gave him raging headaches when exposed to light without the blue-filter and shading of his lenses. 

A waitress came up to their table, customer service face firmly on—though not too cheery for something as ritzy as, well, the Ritz—and took their drink orders. Crowley got a hot toddy, as it was a bit nippy out, and Mr. Fell ordered a glass of wine Crowley wasn’t going to try to pronounce (his French was _terrible_ , though his Latin was passable, but that was a story in and of itself). 

He’d been expecting a lot of things from this meeting—must do in this line of work, expect all sorts of things. He’d been expecting A. Z. Fell to be more uptight or significantly more frazzled—most people who sounded like he did over the phone were often one or both—or he’d been expecting the man to be quite a bit more domineering after the whole elbows on the table bit, even if he’d given him a quick glance up and down during it.

But most of all, he’d been expecting to be flirted with in a far more conventional way. Sure, this was a nice change of pace, but Crowley was so far out of his depth at the moment that it wasn’t even funny. Talking about esoteric historical facts and how lovely tea eggs from a certain food stall in China were or even the nuances of Wilde and Shakespeare was all well and fine. But Crowley, at the truth of it, wasn’t well-traveled or knowledgeable about much at all. He knew the basics, of course—did his required time in schooling, but dropped out before completing anything further—and any traveling he did was from bed to bed of paying lovers. Sometimes that meant going to different places, but the most he’d seen of anything outside of London tended to be within the walls of whatever personal home, hotel, or restaurant as he was whisked away to be a companion to well-to-do men and women who wished to be better-to-do with company.

But Mr. Fell was different. Some people truly did want the company, but they also all wanted physical intimacy too. Crowley liked it better that way, actually, reminded him not to get too attached. Eventually, they’d all go on with their lives and he’d go on with his too, and there wasn’t any room in between all that for something like falling into feelings. (God forbid the four-letter words most of all.) It was a joke, for someone like him to fall for his clients. At least if it was the other way around they could both be happy for a while. At least that was beautifully tragic, instead of something to be derided. 

Crowley shook his head and readjusted himself to lean comfortably against his seat rather than the table so he could pay proper attention to Mr. Fell’s whims and wishes. They sipped on their drinks when they came out and Mr. Fell ordered something or other off the menu for them both. Crowley didn’t much care for food--he could tell if it was well made and could critique it with the best of them but it didn’t hold any special place in his life. Certainly not like it did for Mr. Fell. His mouth went dry and he had to carefully measure his sips so he wouldn’t gulp down too-hot tea and whiskey quickly enough to give himself away. Was this legal? Were people allowed to make those sorts of faces and noises in public? About _food_?

“So, Mr. Fell,” Crowley began, swallowing around the lump in his throat only to be interrupted with a good-natured chuckle as the man in question dabbed daintily at his lips with the linen napkin.

“Please, call me Aziraphale. We’re meant to be companions, yes?” 

Crowley could only nod demurely and flick his tongue out to wet his lips, suddenly feeling like a drowning man–or perhaps more like a man dying of thirst, with his salvation within reach but unable to take it for himself. Not yet. No, not yet.

“Yes, of course, Aziraphale.” He smiled a knife-sharp smile and purred, leaning forward in a way that would reveal more of his chest, the dangling silver necklace weighed down by a swinging serpentine pendant. Good for drawing attention–human eyes naturally watched for movement– it’s how they worked. 

(If there was one thing Crowley found fascinating it was psychology and how it interacted with the instinctual reactions of human bodies and their chemistries—useful for his line of work and interesting, even if it wasn’t a topic he spoke about to his patrons. His leisure time was often spent staying up to date on politics and reading textbooks on astronomy and psychology aloud to his plants.)

Eventually, it turned to evening as days were wont to do. The sun was setting as the two men left the Ritz, both comfortably full, and Crowley only a little confused about how the other man—Aziraphale (the name tasted light and sweet on his lips when he had the chance to call him that)—seemed to be so lonely. Then again, that was his job, to be there when people found themselves lonely. But circumstances being what they were, Aziraphale was well-read, not boorish in the slightest, witty and funny, attractive in a sexy librarian way (or maybe professor, hard to tell), and obviously well-to-do judging by the black card that had gleamed like an oil slick atop the check. Just _how_ could he be lonely? Surely he’d be a favorite at galas and gatherings, with at least a small group of close-knit friends?

Aziraphale was rambling on about illuminated texts and how they were painstakingly painted in monasteries some time back (as if some time back wasn’t hundreds of years!) when Crowley hummed low in his throat and crossed his arms to lean enticingly against a lamppost, car keys dangling from long fingers.

“Want a ride, Aziraphale?” he murmured, smiling softly like the Mona Lisa—a look he’d cultivated very carefully for himself—something tempting and mysterious and a promise of more if only one would follow him. “I’ve got my car, we can take a drive if you like.”

It was a vintage Bentley from the Speed Six line, which he’d seen and instantly coveted—so much so that he’d signed a contract to be something of a kept man (which was against his usual working habits) in order to get his hands on it some years ago. Best working decision he’d ever made—even if the work itself hadn’t been all that pleasurable for him. The modern car within a vintage chassis made it more than worth his while.

Mr. Fell gave him a look, an up-and-down thing that made him feel like he was a bit closer to being on display than he’d intended to be. _Finally._ If it had taken any longer he was going to start to think the man didn’t think him attractive, or that, perhaps, he was starting to lose his touch.


	2. And On Again

After that day—and a white-knuckled promise never to ride through winding countryside roads with Crowley ever again (much to Crowley’s amusement, though he was also somewhat disappointed that the adrenaline hadn’t sparked any baser instincts in the man like it tended to in his other clients)—they began to meet up at all sorts of places. Mr. Fell paid for their trips to concerts, orchestras, and museums. Occasionally he also brought Crowley along as a dining companion at expensive restaurants or hole-in-the-wall places (with staff that knew his first name and all his favorite dishes) with some of the best food Crowley had ever had in his life. 

All in all, it was one of the most enjoyable Arrangements that Crowley had ever had, though the least... demanding. Which, in some ways, was certainly a letdown, he wouldn't be at all opposed to come-ons from Aziraphale Fell. 

* * *

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was dealing with his own frustrations concerning interpersonal relationships as best he could. He wasn’t a particularly personable man; kind to be sure, and polite, but people often found him boring and he wasn’t the type to make friends easily. 

His _relationship_ with Crowley, if one could call it that, began when he came across an ad in the paper, the classifieds section that he perused in order to find people who might be in need of his help the most. It was a cold Tuesday morning and he’d bustled back inside his bookshop quickly, stoking a fire in the reading area he’d set up to ward off the chill. Nothing, in particular, had jumped out at him as someone needing divine intervention, except for one. Well, perhaps that was less of a need for _divine_ intervention so much as, maybe, a call for Aziraphale to be just a bit more… human. 

The ad promised companionship with a discreet gentleman. Aziraphale wasn’t unfamiliar with such things, of course, certainly not after his time in Portland Place, and he had been feeling rather lonely. It wasn’t very proper to feel lonely like he did, but he felt it nonetheless. So, Aziraphale called the number and spoke to a man named Crowley, who had been the companion advertised in the paper.

They arranged a time to dine in the Ritz, and Aziraphale happily took care of the monetary costs. The man was being paid for his time, of course, but that was the best sort of option available to Aziraphale, the kind that didn’t rely on other people to be interested in him and his preferences and wouldn’t be particularly scrutinized from the outside without knowing all the details. 

That first meal they shared, Crowley had looked a little lost, a little overwhelmed and so Aziraphale ordered for him. It was enjoyable, to help in little ways, brought him a certain kind of happiness and self-satisfaction to be able to keep the worries off someone’s plate and to be allowed to do so in the first place. And then, as all things Aziraphale was fond of, it became a habit. 

They went to lunches and dinners and breakfasts and brunches too, walked in the city and in parks, and took day trips out to the countryside or holidayed on trains further out into Europe to visit other countries. Aziraphale took care of all the travel plans and fares, taking great delight in the way it seemed Crowley was honestly pleased whenever Aziraphale presented the man with new gifts or plans already prepared and thought out.

Oddly, it also calmed Aziraphale’s own anxieties. He had never felt like Crowley was going along with anything simply because Aziraphale wished it—because while Crowley was a hired companion, it was clear that he had no problems with asserting any boundaries he might have or expressing dislike of any options Aziraphale presented him with. There weren’t any consequences, none that mattered in the grand scheme of things. This was just Aziraphale, who learned Crowley inside and out, and then proceeded to enjoy their time together as any other person might with a best friend. 

Crowley had also made it clear that, while Aziraphale was paying him, he didn’t remain with clients he wasn’t interested in when he didn’t have to, and Aziraphale himself wasn’t a chore. That made it all worth it, didn’t it? Someone to understand his loneliness and, perhaps, even enjoy spending time with him as well. It was more than he’d hoped for initially.

* * *

Nearly a year after the start of their affair (could it be called an affair if there hadn’t been any sex? Crowley wondered) came a trip to Japan. Aziraphale had purchased Crowley a luxurious first-class ticket to Tokyo and a reservation at a ryokan with private onsen and said he’d meet Crowley there at the airport. They’d both catch a cab for the three-hour drive to the Kashiwaya ryokan in Gunma prefecture. Sure the cab ride was going to be a bit rough, but what better time than trapped in the same car to try to tempt the man?

Crowley growled to himself and ran a hand over his face as he waited at the Haneda airport for Aziraphale to meet him. Just how the _bloody hell_ was he supposed to feel when a client didn’t find him attractive? Mr. Fell always paid exorbitant amounts for his time, obviously didn’t miss the money, and he was a bit eccentric (which honestly was very enticing to Crowley and _shouldn’t be_ ) but who hired a _companion_ without finding them attractive? He wasn’t a damned escort, he was a glorified rentboy and he liked it that way! 

His confidence came from knowing people wanted him, would pay through the nose to have him, like he was a luxury, and his swagger came with knowing he was a good fuck no matter who he was with. He liked it when clients looked at him like an absurdly expensive, ridiculously fast car; like they couldn’t wait to climb inside and see just how high they could make the tachometer go before they blew the engine. That covetousness made something like fire burn in his gut, and he reveled in it. Some would say it wasn’t a good thing that all his self-respect and worth required the tacit approval of others, but it had worked so far.

Until now.

“Anthony!” Aziraphale waved with a bright smile, startling a couple businessmen he walked past. They murmured something in a way that sounded vaguely awed and Crowley couldn’t help but think, _Same, me too. He smiles too bright to be anything but an angel, doesn’t he?_ But, of course, he’d never mention that aloud. Never in a million years. But the thought was safe inside his head, the feeling stuffed deep inside the confines of his heart, hidden by the prison bars of his ribcage.

“Aziraphale.” He greeted suavely and shot a quick finger gun at the man while smiling gently. His hip cocked out to the side and his purposefully-too-short shirt rode up over his hips to reveal soft skin. He frowned to himself when Aziraphale’s eyes flickered down at the movement but didn’t linger, firmly returning to his face. Crowley sighed ruefully but grabbed his weekend travel bag and threw it over his shoulder. He gestured for Aziraphale to lead the way. The man spoke about his business in Japan, something or other about an old book (or scroll, Crowley supposed) of haiku, handwritten and needing to be restored. They’d called in Aziraphale, who was one of the foremost restorationists in the Northern hemisphere. Apparently Latin America had one, from somewhere in Brazil, and they generally deferred to one another depending on where and when the job was. Seemed to be an awfully cordial and casual relationship to have with a competitor, but Crowley very carefully didn’t mention any of that.

Eventually, they made it to the cab and, in fluent Japanese, Aziraphale gave an address and directions to the driver (who looked as shocked as Crowley was; though perhaps he should have expected Aziraphale to know all sorts of languages at this point—the man was _unfairly_ smart and cultured). Crowley could feel the heat in his own gaze as he watched the planes of Aziraphale’s shoulders and the tensing of fabric over them. The man was strong underneath all his softness. Crowley had in the past engineered a few scenarios that required Aziraphale to catch him (well, not required, but it was that or let him fall and he didn’t peg the other man as the type to stand by, and thankfully he had been right). 

The first time he’d done it he was pretty sure his brain had melted out his ears as the blood from his head went down south with enough of a rush to make him feel a bit faint and light-headed. He’d tripped right into Aziraphale, who had grabbed hold of him just in time to save him from a fall. It had been very nice to right himself in the circle of Aziraphale’s arms, to luxuriate in such rare touches, the slide and catch of their clothes against each other. It was something of a novel feeling, to have Aziraphale fuss and fret over him; the man was just so bloody genuine!

The second time he’d been prepared for the overwhelming feeling. They'd been heading up the front steps to a small bakery Aziraphale liked to frequent, before heading off to a picnic later that day, when Crowley had the lovely idea that tripping down them would be absolutely picturesque.

His imagination hadn’t let him down. He’d made sure the heel of his boot didn’t quite make it to the next step as he turned around to speak to Aziraphale, who was following him up the steps, and pulled on a look of horror and shock as he shifted his weight enough to fall. Directly into Aziraphale’s arms, his own gangly limbs around Aziraphale’s shoulders, chests pressed together with no space between them, with all his weight jostled against the firm press of beige-and-cream covered flesh.

Crowley fluttered his eyes over the tops of his sunglasses, which had fallen to the tip of his nose. He’d said something along the lines of “Oh, thank you Mr. Fell,” and the seconds in his arms felt like eternities on cloud nine, until he was abruptly stood up and held at arm's length before wide hands pressed down along the outside his arms and left him bereft of warmth. Aziraphale had pulled back from him and he felt outside his own body somehow, like he’d followed Aziraphale’s touch with his soul and his body had been left there.

Crowley shook his head, pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose to hide his eyes, and lounged back against the seat of the cab with his legs sprawled out. The ride was just over three hours, long enough for Aziraphale to expound on his dealings in Japan as well as for Crowley to begin slumping over in his seat, dozing. He never was good at sleeping on planes, even if air travel bored him out of his skull, so anytime he traveled by plane he inevitably arrived _exhausted_. It was 12 hours or so, nonstop, and it could certainly have been worse if there had been a layover, but Crowley couldn’t really be blamed for falling asleep on a three-hour, gently winding cab ride.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale murmured, prodding at Crowley’s shoulder until he woke, “We’re here, my dear.” Crowley smacked his lips and groaned at being woken up and tensed for a second at the position they were in. Crowley’s head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his face nearly buried in the crook of the man’s neck, and Aziraphale’s arm wrapped around his waist. To keep him from falling, presumably, since Crowley so clearly had a history of that… 

“Yeah,” Crowley muttered roughly, closing his eyes again and breathing in deep to memorize the scent of Aziraphale’s cologne, and then pushed himself slowly to sit upright. In a tangle of his own sleep-deadened limbs, he climbed out of the cab and yawned widely. Crowley followed Aziraphale into the ryokan, nearly colliding into his back when Aziraphale stopped to check them in.

“Oh come now, buck up, Crowley,” Aziraphale smiled beatifically and led the way to their room, “You’ll have plenty of time to sleep soon, but if you don’t wake up you’ll miss any acclimation to the daylight hours!” Crowley just groaned but nodded and closed his eyes to take off his sunglasses and shove the heel of his hand into his eye socket in an attempt to rub away what sleepiness he could. 

The rest of the day blurred together and Aziraphale whisked him away to dinner. Crowley was sure he was terrible company and vaguely remembered acting fairly drunk off sleep deprivation during a relatively simple meal. Wait, maybe it had been sent to the room, did they end up going anywhere?

The next morning rose bright and early through the thin, traditional doors of paper, rousing Crowley from a deep slumber. Aziraphale, of course, had been awake and reading but surprisingly hadn’t left the futon to Crowley’s right. They slept separately, of course, Crowley thought he may have griped about it and whined like a child the night before, but he was pleased to see Aziraphale was having a bit of a lie-in. Crowley tugged the quilted blanket over his shoulders and watched Aziraphale read; despite the early morning, it was enjoyable. Nice and peaceful.

“Oh, my dear!” Aziraphale exclaimed as he looked over before his jaw dropped subtly and he blinked in surprise.

“Mhm?” Crowley muttered, squinting his eyes up at Aziraphale, half afraid the natural brightness the man exudes would hurt his eyes if he looked at him head-on. 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you had awoken.” Aziraphale smiled softly and Crowley’s heart beat a loud thump against his ribcage, trying to break free to hand itself over. Crowley hissed and tugged the warm blanket over his head entirely, a hand on his chest to keep it from escaping.

“No ‘m not!” Crowley replied, muffled through the thick quilt. He could practically _feel_ Aziraphale’s amusement, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Well then, I suppose if you’re not awake you won’t want to sit in the rotenburo…” Aziraphale sighed and when Crowley popped his head out from underneath the blankets, still squinting at the light, he saw that Aziraphale was watching him with a fond smile. 

Crowley made a show of grumbling but threw off the covers, baring his torso to the moderate morning chill, and stood, throwing his hands in the air. “Well, fine then!” He looked over his shoulder at Aziraphale, who was still sitting and watching him. _Yes_ , Crowley cheered to himself, it was always a goal of his to get Aziraphale to just _watch_ him, he’s tried his damndest to tempt the man into sleeping with him. Not that just plain old companionship in the form of friendship was something Crowley disliked, but he was dangerously gone on Aziraphale Fell. 

Aziraphale was nice and courteous and seemed to be legitimately interested in Crowley as a person, and that was rare enough in his life in general that it didn’t take long for Crowley to fall arse over tip. Not that he’d admit to it, of course. It was a vain hope, in a way, Aziraphale was clearly interested in his body, with the way he stared each time Crowley had an occasion to take his shirt off or strut around in little to nothing, but nothing more than staring ever happened.

To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale joined him a few minutes after he’d gone to the private rotenburo inset into the ‘patio’ area connected to their room, surrounded by thickly grown bamboo. The silence of the morning was broken only by the soft sounds of their breath and light splashing of water as they shifted in their seats. It was, perhaps, one of the best mornings of Crowley's life, laying in hot water and basking in the morning sunshine with his head pillowed on his arms, eyes hidden from the light. 

It got better once he could feel Aziraphale’s eyes along his back and Crowley lost himself in the soaking and basking, falling into a doze-like trance of stillness and pleasure at being watched.

Sometime later Crowley huffed and looked up blearily, blinking slowly at Aziraphale’s face which was close to his own and the warm hand on his bare back felt like a brand. Aziraphale could have laid it on his shoulder, but instead, it was on his spine, just above the water around mid-back and Crowley stopped being able to form coherent thoughts aside from the fact of Aziraphale’s hand on his back and body so close to his own.

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmured quietly, “It’s nearly lunchtime. I’m just about pruned up, and I’m sure you are as well…” Crowley swallowed and nodded, he hadn’t noticed. Didn’t notice even now to be truthful, but he’d take Azirpahale’s word for it.

“Y– yeah, sure. ‘S time for lunch.” He only barely stopped the wanton sigh from leaving his lips when Aziraphale’s hand dropped from his back, raking across his skin like a brushfire across the plains. The rest of the day was spent relaxing, enjoying too much food and each other’s presence, exploring the ryokan for a bit and hiking a small, easy trail for the enjoyment of being out in the woods. Just the two of them, and as much as Crowley hated the idea of being smitten with a client, could he really be blamed?

There was something about being alone, Crowley thought, not knowing anyone nearby or having any worries of being seen, that brought out a slightly more… _companionable_ Aziraphale. He walked closer, and sometimes their shoulders brushed, and he smiled wider than Crowley had ever remembered seeing him smile before. He just seemed so _free_ that Crowley couldn’t help but stare sometimes, he couldn’t help forgetting how to walk once or twice and just watching Aziraphale’s genuine pleasure at all the timeless nature around them. If asked, Crowley wouldn’t have pegged Mr. Fell as the type to like being out in nature at all, but it seemed so easy and natural now.

The next day was much like the first, except Crowley took his time so that Aziraphale would beat him to the open-air bath. This time he sat close to the man and wore his sunglasses out so he could lean back against Aziraphale’s shoulder and look up at him, hidden behind dark lenses.

“This alright?” Crowley asked quietly when Aziraphale tensed slightly at his touch, the length of his back pressed against Aziraphale’s side since he’d managed to step in while the older man’s arm was thrown back against the lip of the heated pool, stealing into his personal space. If Crowley were the type to think it, this could almost be an embrace.

Crowley was absolutely the type to think it. Or, at least, he was the type to think it when Aziraphale was involved.

The soak was just as quiet as it was the day before, at least at first, until Crowley asked quietly about what Aziraphale was planning for the trip. As it turned out, Aziraphale was more than happy to elaborate on the foods he’s wanted to try with Crowley and all the places they’d visit over the course of the week as well as all the spa-like treatments and packages the ryokan had available, and wasn’t the trail lovely? Wouldn’t Crowley like to go walk that again every so often?

Crowley didn’t much care about the trail one way or another, but if it made Aziraphale happy he’d walk over volcanic rock barefoot, gladly.

But then it turned to lunchtime and Aziraphale’s arm had wrapped around Crowley’s shoulders without either of them really noticing—that, of course, is a lie, Crowley noticed but he didn’t want to point it out in case Aziraphale drew back because of it—and the stepped from the open-air hot spring. They ate, Crowley watched Aziraphale enjoy himself and surreptitiously passed over a few of the things from his plate that Aziraphale had liked the best, and went on another leisurely trail hike. A different trail than before, but just as easy as the first, wrapping around the ryokan the opposite way and down into the valley area a little. 

“You silly creature,” Aziraphale laughed with a fond grin at Crowley, who’d gone to chase after a butterfly that caught his attention, “What are we going to do with yo– Crowley!” Aziraphale called, worried when Crowley yelped loudly as he tripped over a hidden root and fell into the brush.

“Ow.” Crowley groaned and pushed himself up on shaking limbs, cursing at the adrenaline rush that came far too late to react in time to save himself the fall in the first place. “Stupid bodies,” he muttered with a grimace at how muddy his hands and the back of his shirt was. At least he hadn’t hit his head and, well, Aziraphale fussing over him was quite nice, now wasn’t it?

“Oh come now, let's make sure you didn’t hit anything, are you alright my dear?” Aziraphale fretted, helping Crowley up after pressing his fingers lightly through strands of wine-dark hair to feel for any bumps or blood that Crowley might have missed. Crowley, a little discombobulated from his sudden fall, let Aziraphale half-drag him the rest of the way back to their room, and requested a few more washcloths and a first aid kit. 

Overruling Crowley’s half-hearted protests, Aziraphale made him roll up his trousers to check on his ankles, made him take off his glasses to put on the sink counter to double-check his eyes just in case he’d missed any signs of a blow to his head, and wiped off any of the grime and mud from Crowley’s hands after he’d gotten him a new shirt to change into. Crowley, wisely, didn’t mention that the shirt was one of Aziraphale’s rather than his own, which surely would have been just as easy to fish out of his suitcase? Crowley changed at the man’s behest and let him button him up. 

Was this finally it? Was Aziraphale _finally_ wanting to have what he was paying for? If so, Crowley wasn’t at all disinclined towards it, he was rather looking forward to it actually. So who could really blame him, if he leaned in while Aziraphale’s hands were busy with the buttons at his collar? 

Their lips met, a soft chaste touch, and lingered there for a second before Aziraphale shifted his hands to grab hold of the shirt and Crowley deepened the kiss. It was everything he’d imagined and more, Crowley’s hands drifted up to rest gently on Aziraphale’s hips and he licked into Aziraphale’s mouth with a breathy sigh. The kiss turned into something utterly filthy the moment Aziraphale moaned into it like he’d tasted something delicious at the touch of Crowley’s tongue. Crowley knew he was done for. 

He’d fallen, he’d never get over this, he was lost forever and he didn’t mind it in the slightest if it meant he’d get to enjoy _this_. 

But then the kiss was over, suddenly and firmly. Aziraphale pulled back and stared at Crowley with wide eyes, confusion obvious in them, and Crowley’s heart sank as dread gripped at his stomach like choking vines.

“Oh,” Aziraphale whispered softly. Crowley’s lungs arrested the breath in his throat and he let his hands fall from Aziraphale. 

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale began again and Crowley stepped back.

“No, no, ‘s fine. _I’m_ sorry. Thought wrong.” Crowley whipped away from Aziraphale with a sharp nod and swiftly put on his glasses to hide the shine to his eyes, and slunk away, unwilling and unable to handle such a blatant and obvious rejection.


	3. Confessions

_ “I’m sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale began again and Crowley stepped back. _

_ “No, no, ‘s fine. I’m sorry. Thought wrong.” Crowley whipped away from Aziraphale with a sharp nod and swiftly put on his glasses to hide the shine to his eyes, and slunk away, unwilling and unable to handle such a blatant and obvious rejection. _

He asked himself if he misread anything, but it was obvious he had. This  _ wasn’t _ an excuse to get him into bed finally, this was nothing more than just platonic. Or something. He was still confused about what this all meant, why Mr. Fell would pay for him and his time without actually using him. Was he a beard of some sort? Wrong word, but still, was this all a front to  _ look _ like a relationship outwardly, but nothing more than a farce?

He stumbled into the countryside outside the ryokan, caught a cab off the mountain to the nearest proper city, Haramachi, and shivered in the cold as snow started falling. Thirty minutes in a near-silent ride where he typed out what he needed to say in an online translator, stewing to himself. Eventually, the cab let him out, where he wasn’t sure, he’d just said somewhere in the city, but apparently the driver thought he could use a drink. Knowing that, he wished he’d tipped the guy better; he could  _ absolutely _ use a drink and the place in front of him looked to be loud and distracting. Perfect.

Four hours later he was on stage with his fifth drink in hand, not including the handful of shots strangers who liked his eye color bought him, singing karaoke like his heart depended on it. It was nearly all Japanese songs, of course, which he couldn’t follow to save his life, but there were a few Queen songs. Old enough and prolific enough to make it here, probably for the handful of English tourists exactly like him. 

And that’s how Aziraphale found him, sloshed and performing on stage as if he were made for it, for the undivided attention of strangers, his shirt hanging low and his pants tight and flirting wildly with anyone who seemed receptive. 

“Anthony!” He stood ramrod straight as soon as he heard the voice, passing off the microphone and suddenly feeling very sober, even if his body didn’t agree.

“Y– yes,” He swallowed the frog in his throat before trying again, “Yes, Mr. Fell?” His breath tasted like whiskey and his voice was rough enough he flinched at it, after belting unregulated for the better part of an hour. He felt both chastised and cheeky enough to call him Mr. Fell again. The man sighed and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose before holding his hand out. Crowley took it without another thought, following him out to the waiting cab.

Once more, for the third time in two days Crowley got into a cab and sat in near silence. He was having some trouble keeping himself upright or working the seatbelt and Aziraphale sighed softly, pressing up against Crowley’s side as he took over fumbling at the buckle and simply never removed himself after that. Crowley’s head spun with haphazardly cooked-up justifications in his drink-sodden mind and eventually gave up, deciding to make the most of it and lay his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, snuggling up against the warmth of the man’s body.

“Anthony,” Aziraphale started lowly, voice thrumming through Crowley’s body enough to make him shiver.

“Yeah?” He hadn’t meant to sound that subdued, shit.

“Why did you leave? I was worried when you didn’t come back.” Crowley choked on his breath and Aziraphale either didn’t hear him or ignored it as he plowed on, “I’m not upset at you, my dear, just disappointed.” 

“Hngk,” Crowley said in reply, tongue heavy and leaden past his lips. His shoulders curled in and he turned his head away from Aziraphale to look out the window, the lack of light except for the headlights from the cab made for very little to see.

“No, it’s alright. I just wish you would have told me you wanted to go… sight-seeing. Let me know, next time, hm?” This time Crowley didn’t make a noise back, the sound of his heart feeling like it was shattering beneath his ribcage was too loud for him to bear. Instead, he tore himself drunkenly from Aziraphale’s side and rested his forehead flush to the chilled window, breath and heated face fogging up the glass and melting what little snow that had gathered on it. Next time.  _ Next time _ sounded like this would all happen again, that Crowley would mix up the signals pouring left, right, and center out of Aziraphale, and he’d fuck up and try to kiss him again. And then he’d get rejected,  _ again _ . 

The cab was silent for some time, except for the gentle hum of the engine up front and the breath hanging between them. In all of Crowley’s drunken, infinite wisdom, it felt very much like he ought to say something. But his tongue twisted behind too-sharp teeth that felt like they’d take a vicious bite out of anything he tried to say. So instead he fell back onto words already written, things he’d memorized in days long since passed to impress nameless people at pointless parties.

“Most wounds can Time repair;” he began, almost a whisper, “But some are mortal—these: For a broken heart there is no balm, No cure for a heart at ease—” Aziraphale stopped breathing entirely, eyes fixed on Crowley in a way that would have made him feel like he was about to be hunted down and devoured if he’d been sober enough to pay attention. If he’d been aware enough to notice the glazing over of bright blue eyes turning to dark pools of desire.

“At ease, but cold as stone, Though the intellect spin on, And the feat and practiced face may show Nought of the life that is gone;” Crowley kept up his recitation, mumbling at parts and slurring in a few others, but ultimately it was obviously well-practiced and would have been far more effective, seductive, if he had his wits about him. 

“But smiles, as by habit taught; And sighs, as by custom led; And the soul within is safe from damnation, Since it is dead.” The silence stretched for ages, it felt like, and Crowley closed his eyes entirely, shifting to settle back into the seat and curl away from Aziraphale, not having meant to bare himself and such raw feelings he hardly understood himself.

* * *

“At Ease by Walter de la Mare,” Aziraphale murmured reverently, voice soft, as if he thought it profane to break the silence heavy between them like shattering the lattice between priest and confessor. And was this not a confession? Was this not Crowley showing him his soul, waiting for his penance to be allotted? Aziraphale felt something heavy sink into his heart as if it had been anchored down like a ship waiting out stormy seas, unaware if it had chosen its own destruction or ensured its salvation.

Crowley sat up, drink-glazed eyes squinting over haphazard sunglasses as he looked over Aziraphale. He’d done it plenty of times before, but this time Aziraphale knew to look for it, could see the tenderness behind amber-bright eyes and the wariness in his gaze. He could feel the affection pouring off of him, the very same he’d come into the habit of ignoring and compartmentalizing, telling himself that the man was human, he didn’t need anything like Aziraphale in his life. Didn’t need any of his celestial problems burdening his all too-mortal shoulders. 

But he was also the first creature in some time to catch his eyes, and entirely unusual at that. Aziraphale often found writers and their ilk to be the most interesting; the readers and devourers of knowledge. But even before just now, with the recitation of de la Mare done so prettily, he’d found the man  _ fascinating _ even from the classifieds ad as a companion. It had been rather clear what sort of  _ companionship _ he’d been selling somewhat quickly, but Aziraphale hadn’t intended on purchasing it once he’d caught on. But now, with the kiss earlier today and the wine he’d gulped at to keep himself busy instead of pacing in worry when Crowley had disappeared... Well, there was no hope for him now was there? 

God said to love all of creation, and so he would, he’d focus all Crowley might take from him on this one (not to the detriment of others, of course). 

“Is it?” Aziraphale whispered, reaching out to cup Crowley’s face, unconsciously pulling the two of them closer until their breaths intermingled, his eyes on Crowley’s lips and nose-tips little more than a hair's breadth away from touching. “Is your heart stone now? Soul safe from damnation because it is dead?”

Crowley swallowed heavily, “N- no?” His voice was little more than a whisper himself, a bit squeaky in his surprise.

“No?”

“No.”

* * *

“Good.” Aziraphale pulled back once more, though he didn’t remove his hand from Crowley’s jaw, taking the weight of his head onto him as he pulled the man closer, to lay on his shoulder once more. Crowley’s heart beat hard and fast, he could feel it on his arm even through layers of clothing, and he smiled benevolently down at the human in his grasp.

“Good.” He repeated as the cab slowed to a stop in front of the ryokan. He paid, thanked the driver, and bundled Crowley up in his arms to keep him warm enough on the way to their room and the heated table and quilts within. 

“Good why?” Crowley asked woozily, unsure if this was all real or not. It certainly didn’t feel like it.

“Because it means I can do this.” Aziraphale shut the door to their room and Crowley tried to think hard about how they got there. He wasn’t able to give it any further thought after Aziraphale’s lips were on his, one hand on his lower back and the other curled around the back of his neck, fingers carding through his hair. His brain leaked from his ears at being held by Aziraphale as if he were some precious treasure, and kissed like he was a feast. It was all too much and not enough. It took him a few moments before Aziraphale started to pull back, sad hesitance in every gesture, before he was able to shake himself from his stupor and kiss back, just as hungrily as his hands cradled Aziraphale’s face.

Finally, they broke apart with a few more long and lazy kisses, and Crowley murmured against heavenly lips, “You taste like an angel.”

“A what?” Aziraphale startled, pulling back a little for a better look at Crowley’s face, “No, I couldn’t possibly– we ought to sober up a bit, hm?” He waved his hand, placing it on the back of Crowley's neck and kissed him again so well that he started to feel a bit lightheaded and his desire sharpened everything back into focus.

“No, no, you taste like Heaven, Angel. My angel.” Crowley crooned, moving his hands down to shoulders, following down with his lips and teeth to nip at the inviting flesh of Aziraphale’s collarbone. He delighted in the sound of hissed gasps pulled from clenched teeth and rejoiced in the feel of Aziraphale’s hands clenched into fists in his thin shirt and the hair on the back of his head. A moan slipped past his lips unbidden, and they both froze, simultaneously aroused beyond belief and waiting for the other to pull back.

A few quickened breaths, a handful of hurried heartbeats, and they were kissing again, swallowing any moans that might make either of them rethink any of this, covering up anything that might keep their hands from wandering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end currently of what I have prewritten, and I've got some commitments for zines and other works, so I can't promise this will be updated as regularly as I'd like (ideally every month and a half if I have my way with it, but we'll see; I'd been originally hoping for every month sometime around the middle).
> 
> That being said, thank you all so much! I love hearing from you and _honestly_ kudos and especially comments keep me going and writing. ~~Don't do it for the external validations kiddos, it's a rough time unless you're constantly producing and that's not possible. Do as I say not as I do and all that...~~
> 
> But come yell at me and/or talk on Tumblr! I'm always happy to hear from people and I love making new friends :)


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